Breaking
by clair beaubien
Summary: Tag scene to Head of A Pin. Sam brings Dean home from the hospital. Not a happy story. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Note from Nashcon 1: Jared Padalecki is even better looking in person, though I don't know how that's possible. I want to adopt him.

Note from Nashcon 2: Jensen Ackles can _**sing**_. Oh my.

* * *

Sam made sure everything was set before he left for the hospital. Dean's bed had two thick down quilts - courtesy of the local thrift store - spread over the sheets to make the stiff mattress more comfortable for Dean's battered muscles and cracked ribs. The fridge was stocked with Dean's favorite foods and - because of the pain meds - the only non-alcoholic beer he could stand. Sam set the thermostat a little higher than normal in case Dean got chilled walking from the car to the motel room, made sure the TV was set to Dean's favorite channel and that the remote was on the side table closest to Dean's bed .

Sam wanted everything comfortable and easy for Dean while he recovered. He didn't want Dean to have to worry about anything. He was going to take care of everything.

Finally satisfied that everything was as close to perfect as it could be, Sam drove to the hospital to get Dean.

"You're late." Was how Dean greeted him when he walked into the hospital room.

"I said I'd be here at ten." Sam reminded him. "It's only seven after."

Dean shrugged and grunted something unhappy and didn't move from where he sat hunched on the bed. He'd gotten himself dressed but that was all. Sam shoved all of the '_you never know when we might need this'_ hospital paraphernalia into Dean's bag and tried to not dwell on how slumped, broken, and depressed Dean looked right now.

"Got everything signed?" he asked.

Dean didn't look at him, only lifted a handful of paperwork.

"Prescriptions?"

"Pharmacy downstairs."

"Wheelchair?"

A jerk of Dean's chin indicated one folded up and waiting, tucked behind the door.

Dean was pale and bruised and turned in on himself. Sam thought he'd be happy to be getting out of the hospital. Happier than he _had _been anyway.

Apparently not.

"Ready then?"

Another shrug, another noncommittal noise.

Sam held back his aggravated sigh, kicked open the wheelchair, and wheeled it to the bed.

"Up and at 'em." He tried to sound cheerful, but he didn't feel it. Dean rolled his eyes and moved from slumping on the bed to slumping in the wheelchair with no complaint, no remark at all. Sam slung the duffel over his shoulder and wheeled Dean to the bank of elevators.

It was testament to how poorly Dean was feeling that no bevy of nurses converged on them to say goodbye. One or two looked up from the work at the nurse's station as they passed, they even smiled, said 'goodybe', 'take care of yourself', but Dean had generated no spark in them. That was _bad. _

They got to the elevators without incident or interruption, and once they were inside and the doors were closed and the elevator was falling, Dean pushed himself out of the chair.

"Hey -." Sam warned.

"_What_? They gonna throw me out?" Dean kicked the wheelchair out of his way and leaned his shoulder and then his head against the elevator wall. He looked exhausted. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

Sam couldn't argue with that.

When the doors opened, Dean led the way out and Sam followed, hating Dean's slumped shoulders and shuffling steps. He didn't want Dean to be hurting that bad, to be that vulnerable. He'd expected Dean to be tired, physically sore, physically run down. But he'd also expected him to be mad as hell, to come up fighting the way he always did. Right now, Dean looked like he didn't care if he lived or died, or if anybody else did either.

"Why don't you take a chair in the lobby, and I'll get your meds for you?" Sam asked. "The pharmacy's just down the hall here."

"Right, genius. They won't give _you _my meds unless you're my _parent_."

So Sam kept following Dean, down the hallway, and into the not-short-enough line at the pharmacy counter. He considered going to get the car while Dean waited here in line, but he threw that thought out just soon as it occurred to him. Now that Dean was released, Sam wasn't leaving him alone even for a second. Not even in the hospital pharmacy.

The time in line passed slowly and quietly. Dean didn't make any remarks, snarky or otherwise, about their surroundings or companions or how long it was taking. He just stood there, looking at something Sam wished he could see, too.

Finally Dean's turn came. He got his bottles and scrawled a signature and turned to shuffle his way out of the hospital.

Sam followed.

"Car's this way." He told Dean when they were out on the front sidewalk, gesturing to the parking garage across the street. He still didn't want to leave Dean alone but he wasn't sure Dean could walk that far. "You wanna wait here or -?"

Dean kept walking, toward the garage.

Sam followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean was out of breath by the time they got to the car and he had set himself into the passenger seat.

"You wanna drive through somewhere?" Sam asked him as he started the car.

"No."

That was all the answer he got.

The rest of the drive to the motel was in silence. They drove in silence, they parked in silence. They got out of the car in silence. Almost in silence. Sam hurried out of the car to go around and help Dean, who only growled something and shoved his hands away. So Sam got the duffel out of the back seat and opened the motel door and stood and waited for Dean to drag himself inside.

Dean headed for the bed closest to the door, and only changed direction slightly when Sam stammered out,

"The other - uh - bed. I made that one - um - up for you."

Dean shuffled, actually _shuffled_, to the farther bed and sat on the edge. He sat there as slumped and dejected as Sam had found him in the hospital an hour before. Maybe he was in pain. Maybe he was in too much pain to move around too much. Sam set the duffel down near Dean, filled a glass with water and brought it to him.

"You should take some painkillers, hunh?"

Dean shrugged and didn't take the glass. He pulled the pill bottles out of his jacket pocket and stared at them - painkillers and antibiotics -but he made no move to open either of them. When it looked like he wasn't going to take any pills, Sam set the glass on the bedside table.

"You wanna take a shower?" He turned away, intending to get towels out and get the hot water started. "I'll put together some food for you. Then you can get some rest."

"_Don't."_

It was the first intelligible word Dean had said since they left the hospital. Sam turned back to him.

"Don't what?"

"_Don't take care of me." _Dean said. He didn't look at Sam. His voice was rough and angry. _"Just leave me alone."_

Sam wasn't bothered by Dean saying that. Dean was tired, he was wrung out, he needed to rest and regroup. He didn't mean he didn't want Sam around him, he just meant he was tired and didn't want any fuss. Sam could do no fuss, no muss.

So, he didn't answer Dean, just went out to the kitchenette to get started making something to eat. They'd eat, they'd sleep, they'd watch some bad TV for a few days, then get back on the road.

He checked his stores of food in the fridge and cupboards and decided on soup. Dad always said soup was the healthiest thing for a person. He learned that in the Marines, Sam thought. So he pulled out a can of soup, cut it open with their ancient hand-held can opener, and dumped it into their one and only pot, to heat on the motel range-top.

While he did that, he kept track of Dean behind him, watching without staring. Dean didn't move from his slumped spot on the edge of the bed, arms out, one hand on either side of him as though bracing himself. He was tired, he was in pain. He was blaming himself - they were _both _blaming themselves - for Pamela's death.

And then there was hell.

Dean had been dragged down to hell and back again. _Again_.

Sam was going to take care of that. He was going to get Dean through that, whether Dean wanted him to or not. Dean would do the same for him, _had_ done the same for him, their whole lives.

"Soup'll be ready soon, I got oyster crackers too."

Sam waited, briefly, but Dean didn't answer, so he got out a couple of Styrofoam bowls and plastic spoons and paper napkins and set them out, waiting for the soup to heat through. Waiting for Dean to make some acknowledgement.

When the soup was heated though, Dean was stilling sitting in the same slumped, dejected posture on the bed. Sam shut off the stove and went over to him.

"Hey." He tried, but got no response. He sat across from Dean on the other bed, but Dean didn't look at him. He flicked a glance Sam's way but didn't look at him full on.

"Everything'll be okay." Sam tried. "We'll get through this. We'll just take it easy for awhile. Right? We're always saying -."

He stopped. Calling Dean's recovery from Alistair's beating '_taking some time off'_ seemed tactless. Instead, he pulled the pill bottles out from under Dean's hand, and tossed a couple painkillers out.

"Take these and we'll have something to eat. You can take a shower and -."

"_Stop, _will you? _Please?_"

The anguish in Dean's voice caught Sam off guard and worried him. Dean rarely said '_please'_, even to Sam, unless he was desperate. The word itself was begging enough for Dean. But added to it, that catch in Dean's voice and how he wasn't looking at Sam no matter what -

_He was ashamed._

"_Dean? What?" _Sam was confused. What could Dean be ashamed of? That Alistair had tortured him again? That he hadn't been strong enough to withstand it? _"What is it?"_

Dean sniffed in a long breath and scrubbed his face and shook his head.

"Nothing. Never mind. Nothing." He gestured for the pills Sam still held, and gulped them down with the glass of water. "I'm just gonna get some sleep."

He slapped the glass onto the bedside table and levered himself down stiffly and turned away from Sam. He hadn't even taken off his jacket.

_Conversation over._

Sam set the pill bottles on the bedside table and took the glass back to the kitchenette. He never had the kind of sway over Dean that Dean had over him. Dean bossed and ordered and demanded and expected - and usually _got _- Sam's acquiescence. But Sam bossing Dean was like tackling water.

He sighed and closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

_He had to try another way. _

"Dean?" He went and sat on the other bed again, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, addressing Dean's back. "C'mon. Talk to me, man. Whatever it is -"

"W_hat?_" Dean demanded. He looked over his shoulder at Sam. "Whatever it is, you're gonna take care of it? You're gonna make everything all better? You're gonna make it never have happened? "

"_We."_ Sam said, emphatically. _Something _had happened to Dean. _What the hell had happened_? "Whatever it is, _we_ will take care of it."

Dean shook his head angrily.

"There is no _we_," he spat out. "There's never going to be a _'we'_ again. There hasn't been a '_we'_ since - since -." Dean scrubbed his face and looked anywhere but at Sam. "Since I was in hell…""Dean -." Sam's heart felt shattered in his chest. Did Dean know what he'd been doing? Could he know? "What're you talking about?"

"_I'm talking about -." _Dean started off loud and then his voice dropped. "Nothing. Just leave me alone. Let me sleep."

He turned away again, keeping his back to Sam.

Sam stared at him. For five days in the hospital, Sam had stared at Dean, willing him to hold on, to heal, to survive. He'd prayed to God, _yelled_ at God, yelled at Castiel, argued with nurses, intimidated doctors, defied posted visiting hours, and gotten exactly eleven hours of sleep in a week.

Now he was brought to a complete and utter standstill by his broken, depressed brother who refused to even look at him, much less talk to him.

Well, he consoled himself, Dean was _alive_. They could work on everything else.

But - Dean was hurting and Sam had to do _something_.

He risked the Mother of All Explosions by switching to sit on Dean's bed. When no explosion happened, he chanced going further.

"Whatever it is, Dean - I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. So - don't tell me what it is. If it comes up, I'll be here and we'll take care of it. If it doesn't come up, I'll still be here and we'll still take care of it. _I'm here._"

Dean didn't answer but he didn't have to answer. Anything he said wouldn't change Sam's promise.

Then Dean whispered, "Don't say that. _Please._"

Twice in five minutes, Dean had said 'please' to Sam. The last time he'd said it twice in on _day_, Sam was petty sure one of them was dying.

"You don't need to be part of this, Sam." Dean kept on. "You should run just as fast as you can the other way away from me."

The way he said it made Sam think he wasn't referring to anything about Sam, but something about himself.

Something he was _ashamed _of.

"Part of _what?_" Sam asked. Something _more _than the seals? "What are you talking about? Dean - whatever it is, I'm not going to leave you. You're stuck with me."

Dean's shrug of indifference told Sam exactly nothing.

All their lives, Sam's usual tactic would be to talk and ask and push and probe until Dean just gave up in exasperation and told Sam what was going on. Sometimes though, sometimes there'd been times when whatever was wrong, it was _so_ wrong that pushing only pushed Dean further into himself, and this sure seemed to be one of those times.

All that ever worked at times like that was Sam's hard-learned patience.

The soup was off, nothing was going to boil over or catch fire, so Sam laid himself down on his bed and waited. Best case - Dean would get some sleep and wake up ready and able to talk. Worst case - Dean wouldn't sleep and wouldn't get to the point of being able to talk.

Either way, it didn't matter. Dean was alive, he was out of the hospital, they were here together. That's all Sam needed. He'd figure out what Dean needed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam opened his eyes to the realization that he'd dozed off. Not for too long, an hour or so, the shadows hadn't advanced much across the ugly floor. But he'd slept deep enough that Dean had doubled his pillows and taken his jacket off and pulled it over his shoulders like a blanket and Sam hadn't heard. He hadn't meant to zone out that much, he needed to keep alert, to keep an eye on Dean.

When he sat up, Dean gave a half glance back at him.

"Sorry - I didn't mean to fall asleep." Sam said.

Dean shrugged.

"When was the last time you slept, anyway?" He asked Sam. And judging from his tone, it was a rhetorical question; he didn't need or want any answer. It was just a remark because he figured Sam would expect him to say something.

Sam didn't move off the bed at first, he dropped back down and stayed stretched out on the bed, contemplating the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and the flaking paint on the wall that fronted the bathroom. Not the worst placed they'd ever stayed - that one had the distinction of smelling like a dead raccoon - but it sure wasn't the best place they'd ever stayed either.

All their lives, 'home' had been an unending parade of mediocre motel rooms, musty cabins, and squalid houses. Well, all _his_ life, _Sam's_ life. Dean at least had had a few years of nice, clean, and normal, until -

_Until_ - the thought crushed through Sam. _Until_ evil came looking for him, for Sam. Mom had died because of Sam, they'd lived miserable, peripatetic lives because of Sam, Dad died because of Sam, Dean went to hell because of Sam, which meant Dean had tortured Alistair because of Sam, which meant Dean was lying here depressed and broken because of _Sam_.

And Sam had thought a couple of feather quilts and cheap chicken soup would make everything all better?

He inhaled a yawn and purposely turned his mind away from thinking how nice it would be to go back to sleep, to sleep for days. He was tired. He was _exhausted_. And sleep meant that for a little while anyway, he could not think how this was all his fault.

But Dean first. Until Dean was back on his feet, it was Dean first, last, and always.

First thing, Dean needed to take his antibiotics, and to do that he needed to eat, and to do that the soup needed to be heated and to do that, Sam needed to get off his ass and get to work.

He popped his back into place as he stood up to shuffle back to the kitchenette, but it didn't help. His back hurt and his sinuses burned like he was getting a cold, searing behind his eyes the way they used to when he'd been up all night studying. He shouldn't have fallen asleep. It hadn't done either of them any good.

He turned the heat on under the soup again and pulled out two Styrofoam bowls and then saw that he'd already laid some out. He tried to put the extra ones back into their plastic sack but the rims caught and the bowls buckled and he crushed them in his hands and threw them across the floor.

A squeak of bedsprings told him that Dean might've turned to look at him, but he wouldn't look back so he didn't know. He shoved the bag of bowls farther onto the chipped, cheap, cardboard countertop and took a deep breath - or was it _another_ deep breath? - before turning back to Dean.

"When do you need to take your next antibiotic?" He asked, even though he knew Dean should've taken it an hour ago. Dean only muttered something.

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his burning sinuses.

"I have soup for you. You need to take your antibiotics with food." He tried.

"And how would you know that?" Dean asked. His voice was flat, but at least it was talking.

"I saw it on the label when I set the bottle down."

Dean huffed, loudly, which still wasn't much but Sam was willing to consider it a form of active communication. When Dean made no move to the bottle, he tried,

"C"mon, dude. You don't want to end back up in the hospital, do you? You're gotta finish the whole course of antibiotics. Unless you _liked _the catheter and bedpan."

The huff this time was accompanied by a glare, but Dean reached blindly behind himself for the bottle. Sam took that as a sign that Dean had decided to eat as well as take the medicine and he filled one of the Styrofoam bowls with soup.

Dean only swallowed the pill with the water that was left in the glass and shoved himself back onto the bed.

_End of discussion. _

Sam stood there, with the bowl of soup in his hands, feeling like everything was disintegrating around him. He hated it. He hated everything. He hated the dingy, tacky, not-good-enough motel room with the flaking paint job and the curling floor tiles. He hated the cheap soup and cheaper Styrofoam. He hated the worn, second-hand down quilts he'd hoped would ease Dean's rest.

This was their _life_? Left-over, make-do, second-best?

"You want me to take you to Bobby's?" Sam asked. Not that Bobby's was the Ritz, or anything close. But obviously it wasn't the _ambience _Dean was having the problem with. And the look that crossed Dean's face when he looked back wasn't surprise at the question.

"Do you _want_ to take me to Bobby's?"

_No, I want you to eat something and get some sleep and tell me what the hell is going on, _Sam thought. What he said was, "If you'd rather it wasn't me taking care of you - I'll take you to Bobby's."

Dean sighed and turned away, _again_, and pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders.

"_No, I don't want you take me to Bobby's." _He said, but his tone sounded like he was only saying it because he knew it was what Sam wanted to hear, not because it was true.

"_I'm sorry."_ Sam said. It was all he could think to say.

Dean didn't say anything but the look he did turn on Sam was very clear: he had no idea what Sam was apologizing for.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do any better for you." Sam told him.

Dean puzzled on that, and Sam figured he answered only because he couldn't figure it out.

"What're you talking about?"

_'The soup, the room, our lives, everything. I'm sorry about __**everything'**_Sam wanted to say, but he didn't.

"I'm sorry -" He wondered if he should even say it. It wasn't like it was going to make any difference. But he said it anyway. "I'm sorry you got hurt - _that you keep getting hurt _- because of me. I'm sorry you got sucked into my darkness."

He turned away with the rubbery bowl and plastic spoon and processed soup. Dean deserved better than this. Dean deserved _so much better than this. _

"_Sam…_" Dean said it like he'd just realized he'd dashed some juvenile desire of Sam's and had to give in or Sam would have a hissy fit. "I'll eat it."

Sam couldn't care enough to feel any victory.

"Yeah. No. No, I know. I just - forgot to put the crackers in."

He set the bowl down on the ancient table and popped open the bag of oyster crackers to drop half a handful into the soup.

Dean got up from the bed and scuffed himself over to the table and made a brave attempt at eating the soup. Sam dropped himself into the opposite chair.

"You eat?" Dean asked him. It sounded like he'd had to search around for something to say.

"I was gonna. I'm working up to it."

Dean just kind of tilted his head in an '_okaaay, whatever that means'_ kind of gesture and kept eating. When his bowl was empty, or nearly empty, Sam took it back to the stove and the battered pot and the thin soup. He poured Dean another bowl and one for himself and carried them back to the table.

His bowl dipped and sloshed as he set it down, splashing some soup onto the table, and he had to fight the urge to slap shot it across the room in aggravation. He set Dean's bowl down, carefully and precisely, then ripped a paper towel off the roll, badly, and mopped up the greasy liquid. Then instead of eating the soup, he only popped a few oyster crackers in his mouth.

Dean ate his second bowl as disinterestedly as the first. When he was done, or nearly done, he took the bowl and spoon to the garbage and tossed them away. Then he sat back in the chair across from Sam.

"You gonna eat?"

_Why bother?_ Sam thought.

"Not hungry." He said.

Dean _hmmpfed._

"_Neither was I."_

So Sam put a handful of crackers into his soup and started eating it. It tasted like wet cardboard. This was what he'd made Dean eat? This was what he thought would help Dean heal, what would make him feel better? _What an idiot_.

Before he could stop it, Sam heaved a great, frustrated sigh. Before Dean could ask what it was for - _if_ he asked what it was for - Sam gulped his soup and got up to throw the bowl and spoon away.

"You should go back to sleep, then." He said, his back to Dean. "I'll - I'll -" Keep watch. Find a better motel. Find a way to end all the tragedy and grief that hounded them one minute to the next.

"You'll _what_?" Dean asked. There was challenge, exhaustion, and a little sneer in that question.

"Honestly - I don't know." Sam answered him, and there was exhaustion, resignation and a little desperation in the answer. He wanted to go to sleep, he wanted to go unconscious, he wanted to not have to worry about saving the world, saving Dean, saving five cents on a can of soup. He turned around and tried to not look at Dean. "I just know that you need to sleep. You need to get some rest."

"So do you." Dean said. No snark, no challenge, not even any concern that Sam could hear. It was just a statement. And Sam _so_ wanted to just lay down and disappear. But he couldn't.

"I've got to get started on research. I didn't get much done - " Sam stopped himself, trying not to bring up the hospital, that Dean had been in the hospital, _why _Dean had been in the hospital. "I haven't gotten much done."

To make his point, Sam went to pull his computer out of his leather bag. While he was in there, he grabbed the bottle of painkillers too. Beside needing them for the red hot ice pick being ripped through his sinuses, a few Excedrin would keep him awake enough to research enough to feel like he'd done _something_.

"You got a headache?" Dean asked. He was eyeing the pill bottle in Sam's hand, but he didn't sound like he cared.

"My sinuses. Feels like I snorted drain cleaner."

"Take one of mine."

"No, you need those. This isn't so bad."

Dean just shrugged. Sam wanted him to push it, wanted Dean to insist he take one of the good painkillers. But Dean just shrugged and let it drop. So Sam took three of his tablets with a glass of water from the kitchenette sink, and - since Dean wasn't moving from the table - set his computer up on his bed.

While he booted up the computer, and connected to the internet, and tried to think of anything he hadn't already thought of that he could research, Dean stayed at the table, hunched and still.

"You should really get some rest." Sam told him after awhile. For one thing, Dean needed the rest. For another thing, if Dean laid down, Sam could move his computer to the table and sit in a chair so his back wouldn't hurt so much sitting on the bed.

But Dean didn't act like he heard. He didn't move from the table. He didn't look up. He stared at the table or his hands on the table. Sam wanted to do something for him. He ached to do something, anything to make Dean feel better, to help him, _make_ him, lose the hopelessness.

Dean had done it for him countless times. He'd done it _every_ time. Sam couldn't think of a time he'd despaired that Dean hadn't been able to make him feel better. Except for the times that Dean wasn't there, and those times hurt too much to think about. But Dean was here _now, _and Sam was here _now_, and - together and separately - they'd faced worse things than not knowing what to say to each other. They were together and there was never anything more important than that. Even more than Dean's words, that was always what mattered to Sam, that Dean was _there._

Sam picked up his computer and brought it to the table, and sat across from Dean to keep working on his research. Dean still didn't move or look up or say anything. But when words weren't enough or when they were too much, just being with each other always seemed enough. So Sam worked, and didn't say anything either and hoped, prayed, that after awhile, Dean would be able to tell him what was going on.

And he hoped and prayed that he'd know what to do when Dean did finally tell him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: OK, I've been telling people there's only 1 chapter left but I was mistaken. And this one ends in a kind of awkward place, but it's long enough to be its own chapter so here it is. There _shouldn't_ be more than 1 more chapter, but that could change. Again.

* * *

Time passed, Sam tried to not count every individual minute as they updated in the corner of his computer screen, and he tried to not look, stare, or even glance at Dean.

Finally, when Dean's chair squeaked three or four times within a minute or so, Sam knew something was coming. He still didn't look up until Dean spoke.

_"Turns out, it wasn't your darkness after all. It was mine."_

His voice was so soft, so unsure, so pained, it didn't even sound like him.

"What're you talking about?" Sam couldn't even _begin _to imagine what Dean was talking about. "How was it _yours_?"

"Um - it - um - see -." Dean rubbed the side of his nose and gestured vaguely and kept his eyes on his boots. "In the hospital, when I was in the hospital, you were - I think you went to get coffee, or use the bathroom, you weren't there for a few minutes and Cas showed up -."

Just the _sound_ of that name pissed Sam off.

_"He had a lot of nerve coming back there."_

"He had to something to tell me. Something he _had_ to tell me."

And just like that, Sam knew - whatever Castiel had told Dean, it was the reason Dean was so dead right now.

"_What did he say to you?"_ Sam demanded. "Did he threaten you? Did he _hurt _you? I swear to _God, _I will hunt him down and rake his feathers across the _galaxy _if he so much as looked at you sideways."

"No, Sammy, that wasn't it." Dean said, sounding like it took all the breath in his body. He looked up and around and anywhere but Sam. "He told me - he told me - do you know what the first Seal to fall was?"

"Yeah, the Witnesses. What did Cas -?"

"No, not the Witnesses. The first Seal - the first Seal -."

Sam leaned toward Dean, intent on every word, every gesture, every nuance. He knew Dean enough to know that whatever was wrong, whatever was devouring Dean from the inside out, he was about to find it out.

Dean cleared his throat and scrubbed his face and looked just as devastated as he had those first few minutes after Dad died. He finished his thought in a hoarse whisper.

_"The first Seal was when a righteous man shed blood in hell."_

Sam heard Dean. He heard him and he waited for him to say more, while he spun what Dean had just said through his brain, trying to piece Dean's shame out of it, and sooner than it took to take a breath -

_"You were the first seal."_

"I _broke_ the first seal." Dean said. "And the angels - they didn't haul me out of hell because I'm special, or important, or worthy. They pulled me out because the guy who started it all has to stop it all."

Sam was trying hard to get his brain to process everything Dean was saying, but it wasn't making sense. And then Dean said,

_"_I'm only breathing again so I can clean up the mess I made."

_"Hey_, if there's a mess, then _we_ made it." Sam said, gesturing between Dean and himself. "I don't know what crap Castiel told you, but -"

"_He told me that when all the seals fall and the Apocalypse starts, it'll be because of me. _Because _I_ started it. There's no '_we' _in there."

"You didn't start it."

_"I broke the first seal."_

"_No_, you _were _the first seal."

_"I BROKE the first seal and the whole world is going to burn because of it unless I stop it. __**I **__have to stop it." _

"No. _No._ Whatever needs to be done, we do it _together_." Sam insisted.

_"__**I **__have to stop it." _Dean insisted back. Then his voice and his eyes dropped and Sam knew he was about to hear Dean's shame. "And I _can't_. I know I _can't_. The fate of the world is resting on a guy who'd rather just curl up and die." He finished in a hoarse whisper. "_Sammy _- _I can't do it_."

"_You don't have to." _Sam said, his tone matching Dean's. Why wasn't Dean getting it? "_You_ don't have to stop it."

"_Yes, I have to._"

"Why? Because a couple of dick angels say you have to? When did we start taking _their _word for anything?"

_"They're angels."_

_"SO?"_

_"So? Since when do __**you **__diss angels"_

_"Since I realized they're all __**dicks.**__"_

By now, they were yelling at each other and that wasn't what Sam wanted. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face.

"Dean -."

"No, Sam. I mean it. You need to get as far away from me as you can. You don't need to be part of this. If I can't take care of it, or even if I can - who knows what happens after that? Maybe I just go back to the pit."

Just the thought of that drove Sam to his feet.

"_No._ _They don't touch you. Not-ever-again."_

"You can't stop them, Sam. Nobody can." Dean huffed and gestured to himself, his healing ribs, the fading bruises. "_This _is proofof_that_."

"_No._" But even as he said that, Sam knew it was true. Angels could zap Dean out, right here, right now, and there wasn't one damn thing he could do about it except hunt Dean down again and hope he got there before it was too late.

He sank back down into his chair.

"Just - don't even say that."

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Doesn't change it being true." He said. And then, quieter, he added, _"Doesn't change anything. I broke the first seal."_

"You _were_ the first seal." Sam said again, he really hoped it was for the last time. "_You _were the first seal, and they broke you."

Dean's expression changed in an instant, from sorrowing to a snarl.

_"They didn't break me." _He said, sharp and fast. "I _chose_ to get off the rack and pick up that knife. They didn't break me. _I didn't break."_

_"Yes, you did." _

Dean shoved away from the table, shaking his head like Sam was the stupidest person alive.

_**"I didn't break." **_

He stormed away from the table toward the front door. Even half dead and hardly able to stand up straight, that was typical Dean defense against Sam - turn his back and ignore the situation. Normally, Sam might just let him go and wait to sort things out. But Sam was tired and in pain and just about at the end of his rope. He stood up and shouted after Dean.

_"Why? Because you're Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester doesn't break? I got news for you - you did. You BROKE." _

Almost to the motel room door, Dean turned back.

_"You don't know what you're talking about. I didn't break. I __**chose **__it. I __**enjoyed **__it. I __**enjoyed **__torturing souls."_

"I _do_ know what I'm talking about." Sam answered him back. "_I know __**you**__. _I know those last ten years did more damage to you than anything that happened to you the first thirty. And I know that if you make yourself believe you enjoyed it, then you can make yourself believe you didn't break. _Because Dean Winchester doesn't break. _But you _did _- you _broke_."

Sam stopped yelling. He was exhausted and in pain and at the end of his rope, and - he realized -_ so was Dean._

"And the only thing wrong with that," he finished, "_Is that you were in hell at all." _

He turned back to the kitchenette, he threw out the styrofoam bowls he'd crushed and tossed onto the floor, he tied the plastic bag of bowls shut and pushed them into the cupboard. He rearranged the cheap cans of cheap soup and propped the bag of oyster crackers between a couple of them.

Behind him, he heard Dean come back to the table, but it didn't sound like he sat down. If he was back, then at least he wasn't angry anymore.

to be continued


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: **If anyone finds a video of the boys' answer to my question about wardrobe at the Nashcon, PLEASE send me the link! **

* * *

Sam tried to stay busy at the kitchen cupboard, doing any little thing he could think of or invent, while Dean stood at the table, not saying anything. He was desperate to turn around and hear what Dean was going to say, but he didn't want to seem like he was pushing him before he was ready to say it.

So he waited.

_"Dad didn't break." _Dean said, quietly, finally.

"What?" Sam turned to him. Dean was standing there, gripping the chair with white fingers. Just like Sam thought, the snarl was gone, the sorrow was back.

"_Dad_. He was in hell a _hundred _years and _he _didn't break."

His statement took Sam by complete surprise.

"Dean -" He started to say - well, he didn't know _what_ he thought he was going to say. If he wasn't so exhausted, he'd probably laugh. If he wasn't so depressed, he'd probably cry. Was _that_ what Dean was ashamed of? That he wasn't _John Winchester? _Good _God_, after everything they'd been through, everything they were still going through, after Dean survived _hell_, he was still worried about _Dad's approval_?

_Really_?

What was he supposed to say? Point out all the ways that Dean _wasn't_ like Dad? Not the best way to get him through his depression, even if not being like Dad was a _good _thing.

But, no. Sam's mind quickly ran through all the words and ways that Dean had ever got him through his own depressions and desperations. Thinking that, the words came to him.

"Of course Dad didn't break." Sam walked over to the table and stood across from Dean. "He'd finally found the thing that killed Mom and had it in his sights. He could've killed it if he wanted to. Dad went to hell at the top of his game. Of course he didn't break."

Dean didn't answer that, he shrugged a little and looked down but he didn't say anything. Sam sat in his chair, hoping Dean would too and, after a hesitation, Dean sat down across from him.

Sam pushed his argument further.

"I mean - c'mon, man. Dad had what? An _hour_ to think about going to hell? He didn't have a _year _to think about it and worry about it and try everything and then some to get out of it. He knew we'd take care of each other, so he didn't have a year of worrying what was going to happen to us when he was gone. He didn't have a year of trying his damnedest to teach us everything he possibly could and worrying about everything we didn't know and he wouldn't have a chance to teach us. You had _all _of that with me. _And _more. Dean - when you went to hell - you were already totally _exhausted._" Sam hated to say it, but he said it anyway. "By the time you went to hell, _you were half broken already_."

A look of anger crossed Dean's face, but disappeared.

"So? Doesn't change anything. I _broke_, and the dominoes started falling. And I have to run catch them before they _all _fall."

"_We_, Dean." Sam said, feeling some aggravation. "_We_ will take care of it. Whatever needs doing, it _isn't_ on _you."_

"Sam - no - "

_"Look, Dean - just - listen to me."_

"_What_?" Dean asked. Demanded. He was still hunched and pale and broken-looking, and Sam still wanted nothing more than to take this burden, _this __**one **__burden_, off of Dean's shoulders.

He wanted to promise that they'd figure it out. He wanted to promise - _again _- that he could keep Dean from going back to hell. He wanted to tell Dean exactly why he knew it wasn't Dean's mess to clean up and exactly how _he _was going to clean it up instead.

He wanted to, but he couldn't. Dean wouldn't believe him, and it wasn't true, and Dean would never forgive him.

"Look, there's nothing we need to do right now. There's nothing we _can_ do right now." Sam said instead. "So you get some more sleep and I'll -." He heaved a deep sigh and gestured wearily, angrily, to his computer. "I'll keep researching."

He dragged his computer closer and rubbed his thumb between his eyebrows.

"Still hurts?" Dean asked.

"I'll live."

"Take one of my pills."

"No, you need those." Sam said. He didn't look up from his computer.

"I've got enough."

"There's never enough of the good pills."

"_Just take the damn pill, will you?"_ Dean snapped. He pushed himself to his feet and limped more than shuffled over to his his bed and the bedside table. He picked up his bottle of painkillers and held it out towards Sam.

"_Okay_?" His voice was calmer, concerned even.

Sam looked over at him, but only shook his head.

"C'mon, that head's got to be bad." Dean shook the bottle. "_Sam? Okay?_"

"Dean -" Sam rested his head in his hand. He couldn't tell him. He _wanted _to tell Dean how this was all on him, on Sam, and he wanted to tell Dean how he was going to take care of it. But he couldn't tell him because Dean wouldn't understand. He'd yell and punch and storm off and really, the only thing keeping Sam going right now was _Dean_. So - if, to keep Dean, he had to keep him in the dark, he would.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." He said and Dean shook a pill out and set it on the table in front of Sam. Then he got a glass of water and set that on the table too.

"I'm going back to bed for awhile." He said, turning away, not waiting to see if Sam took the pill. He sat on his bed. "You should too. Like you said, nothing we can do right now."

"I can research." Sam sighed out. He stared at the pill and the water but couldn't decide if he wanted to take it or not.

"The research'll still be there in a few hours."

Sam pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to take the pill and lay down and go to sleep. But he couldn't. He _couldn't_. He had to research. He had to _find _something. He had to _do _something. _He had to save Dean._

"I've lost enough time already." He said from his behind his hands. He expected - or maybe just wanted - Dean to say something. Tell him again to take the pill, to rest. But Dean didn't say anything.

Fine. Whatever. Tomorrow Sam would take Dean to Bobby's. He'd heal better there. Better and faster. All the effort and details Sam had put into making this motel room fit for Dean had come to nothing; he didn't think Dean had noticed even one thing he'd done. So he'd take him to Bobby's.

He'd take Dean to Bobby's and get back to the job of trying to save the world. He'd do it alone. He could do it alone. As long as Dean was safe, Sam could do anything he had to. He'd take Dean to Bobby's. Dean obviously didn't want to be with Sam, so he'd take him to Bobby's because all that mattered was Dean, protecting him, getting him well, keeping him safe.

That's all that mattered.

He dropped his hands just enough to gulp down the painkiller with some water and yank his computer closer. He didn't look at Dean, he tried to concentrate on the screen and the keys, tried to get even a little bit of research done, but the pain seared behind his eyes, blurring his vision.

He blinked up, over the top of his computer. And blinked again at what he saw. Dean had pulled all the blankets off of Sam's bed and was spreading one of the thrift store quilts over the mattress. The quilts Sam had bought to soften Dean's bed. Dean had pulled one off of his own bed, and was giving it to Sam.

Then Dean tugged the blankets and pillows back into place on Sam's bed, and back into place on his own. Without saying anything or even looking at Sam, laid back down on his own bed and pulled his jacket over his shoulders.

Sam stared at the beds. He stared at the beds, and at Dean.

He closed down his computer and laid himself down on his bed and went to sleep.

The end.


End file.
